


Daddy’s Good Girl

by JasnNCarly



Series: Jon Moxley (Dean Ambrose) & You [14]
Category: Professional Wrestling, WWE, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Tumblr, greygirlmoxley, wwe imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-19 06:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19351573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JasnNCarly/pseuds/JasnNCarly
Summary: Marriages woes fall upon you.





	1. Chapter 1

_It’s gonna be late._

You don’t want to make his first night home hard; but you’ve missed him for a while now. Ever since he had won the championship, you found yourself happily accepting whatever time he could give you. However, your kids needed daddy more than you did, so you found yourself dealing with an exhausted husband and fantasies of the way things used to be.

During his week home, you would be on vacation from work; yet you two would have obligations to other family and friends, trying to establish a strong foundation for your son and daughter. Again, you had to put yourself on the back burner.

You tuck the kids into their beds, promising daddy will be there to wake them in the morning. Once they are good, you leave a nightlight on in each of their rooms and leave the door opened only a crack. Downstairs, you go back into the kitchen and fix him a plate. It is more than he’ll want – you’re sure he’s eaten at the arena; but you do things out of habit, attempting to give him some kind of normalcy while he’s home.

You pull your hair into a mess ponytail, digging into your pocket and retrieving your earbuds. Plugging in, you flip on your iPod and begin to clean the mess of the kitchen. Dinner with your kids tended to be messy with two children under the age of five. You are at the sink, slightly dancing with the music, and scrubbing dishes, when the whining dog signals Jon’s made it home. Unplugging one earbud, you stop the music for a moment and set up his dinner at the dining table. You didn’t rush the door, nor did you fight with your pup for his attention. Instead, you set his plate down, pour him a glass of water, and head back to the sink to continue your work.

“Hey, babe.” Jon’s voice is soft as it accompanies a peck to your cheek, a squeeze to your bicep, and his dismissal as he goes to the table to take advantage of your kindness.

You’re not mad. You get it. It’s a natural distance building between you as he’s always gone, and you’re always doing a thousand things to keep your mind off of him. A few years married to Moxley who had transformed into some mild-mannered lunatic, and you never imagined you would feel this distant…this alone…this bored.

Wiping your hands on a kitchen towel, you get the dishwasher going, then turn to his bag near a cabinet, “Is this everything or is there more in the car?”

“That’s all my clothes.” He speaks with a full mouth as you pick up the duffle bag with two hands, “The other bag is some stuff for you and the kids.”

“Okay.” You take the bag and head to the laundry room, separating his balled up clothes with a small cringe and loading the washer. When you’ve got a load going, you head back to the kitchen and walk up to him as he leans back, plate cleared, “You want some more?”

“Nah, that was plenty. Thanks.”

You kiss his forehead, somewhat twirling his curls – swooning when you realize they’ve gotten a little longer, “Anything else you need?”

“Yeah, a shower.” He pushed his chair back with his thick legs, kissing your lips quick and heading out of the room with a low groan – telling you his body is too full of aches to consider anything else beyond hot water.

You try not to be offended that your husband has just walked out of the room, leaving an empty plate and not even hinting at wanting you to join him in the shower. Clearing the table, you leave his dishes in the sink and go upstairs to change into a tank top and shorts. The shower is still running when you exit the master bedroom and make your way downstairs again.

You and the dog walk the entire first floor, securing every lock and shutting all the lights off. Only the elaborate tree Jon had set up the last time he was home remains lit as you curl up on the couch and reach for the television controller. You rest your head on the couch arm, using the chocolate fleece throw to cover yourself and signaling with your head that it is okay for the dog to join you.

The fluffy man in your life hops up onto the couch, curling around your legs and resting his chin upon them. Flipping through channels, glancing at the couch, you see there are limited selections in the middle of the night. You find something tolerable and begin to give into your own sleepiness; your mental checklist is complete: the kids are safe, asleep; Jon’s home safe; and everything is as clean as it can be at the moment.

“Hey…” You have no idea if you made it to a dream or if you’ve actually slept when you hear his graveled whisper; lids hooded, you find his gentle smile lit by the Christmas tree lights as he strokes your hair, “You coming to bed?”

Part of you wants to say no. You want to sleep on the couch where at least the dog won’t ignore you. However, you resist the urge and give a small nod. Slipping from under the throw, you accept Jon’s extended hand and watch as he pats the dog’s head – giving the command for him to stay put before he leads you upstairs. Jon does his own check of your kids, making you smile at his concern, as you kiss his exposed shoulder.

You aren’t ignorant of your husband’s perfection as he laces your fingers, leading you down the hall to your room; dressed in only a pair of gray sweats, his hair still wet from the shower, you watch the muscles of his body move just slightly with his calm walk.

In your room, you wish he would be affectionate – beyond simple kisses; yet you get little more than couple kisses to your lips and cheek before he spoons you in bed; his heavy snore signaling that he’s out before you can even say goodnight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y/S/N and Y/D/N stand for your son and daughter name choices. I choose not to use names to leave you choice based on your mood.

The bed is cold and empty beside you when the next morning arrives; you almost feel like pouting about it until you hear the laughter seeping in from outside. You toss the covers aside, going to your bedroom window and opening the curtains to find your smile.

In the backyard, your three-month-old baby girl is bundled in a pink winter suit and secure in her dad’s arms; she looks like you aside from her chipmunk cheeks and mix of curls and waves in her (Y/H/C) thick hair. Your son is Jon’s split image, especially in his dangerous stare which you were sure would make girls nuts, years from now; your four-year-old son runs to get his father more snow to pack onto a very short snowman that they have built. Jon clearly instructs your son on how to build from the bottom up as your daughter points at the snowman and asserts her own gibberish. Jon smiles at your girl, kissing her rosy cheek, then returns to instruction.

Forcing the window open, you shudder at the cold air and hear (Y/S/N) ordered Jon, “You have to sing it, daddy! (Y/D/N) has to know!”

“I don’t remember the words, bud.” Jon’s gloved thumb wipes your daughter’s nose as your son glares at him, until he groans the only line he knows, “Do you wanna build a snowman?”

You shake your head, grabbing a pair of jeans and one of Jon’s hoodies; you force yourself into your boots, not wanting to bother with the laces, and pull a beanie over your wild bed hair. You manage to make it outside as they are putting the finishing touches on the snowman, and you’ve grabbed your cellphone to snap a quick video of Jon’s mumbled singing as your son’s off key chorus carries through the chilled air. Once you receive Jon’s death stare, you switch to snapping photos for a scrapbook. 

You did everything you could to contain these moments which showed how committed Jon was to making everything work. It was another reason you loved him so much and were willing to sacrifice just about anything to keep him.

—————–

“No, no, don’t change anything. We’re just—” You rush to your mirror, brushing furiously at your hair as you continue to balance the phone at your ear, “Running a little late. The kids had to get warmed up after being outside for a while before we could get them ready and…” You toss your brush onto the dresser, avoiding your image in the vanity, “You know…it’s a long story. I’ll explain when we get there, okay? We won’t be more than thirty minutes.”

You shut off the phone before you can receive a response, tossing the phone and snatching a studded bret to pin up half your hair; you are in the middle of applying lipstick when you hear his small growl behind you. Proud of the response, you slowly turn to your husband and let out a sharp laugh, “Not exactly the response I want to hear as a boss when we go to this holiday party, Mox.”

Jon leans against the doorframe, his eyes measuring everything from your neck on down, “Then don’t wear that dress.”

The white sweater dress you wear must make the blush of your skin more obvious as you walk to the end of the bed and sit, slipping on a pair of brown boots, “I tried to find something that didn’t make me look like I have a huge stick up my ass – you know for my gossiping employees.”

“There are so many dirty things I wanna say about you and your ass right now.” Jon stands in front of you, slightly hovering over you, as you peek up at him through your thickened eyelashes, “I won’t, but you need to know the ideas are there.”

“Good to know I don’t completely repulse you.” You mumble, hoping the thought was muffled enough to be ignored.

“What was that?”

Shit. He didn’t need to hear your insecurities right now. You needed to keep up appearances until you could be insecure all by yourself. You stand boldly to your feet, your chest brushes against his as you shrug a shoulder, “Just hoping I get a good reaction when we get there.”

Jon narrows his eyes, clearly not believing you, but accepts the dismissal as he takes your hand and leads you out of the bedroom, “Come on, let’s go get the kids sugared up.”

—————–

“Did you really need to let him have three of those cookies? They were huge.” You can feel the migraine setting in as your son continues to sing in the backseat, your daughter sound asleep. Propping your elbow against the door, you close your eyes and prop your head against your fist, “It’s going to be a while before he crashes and burns. Which means you can sit with him downstairs and wait that out.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jon continues to take his time driving his family home, simply enjoying the normalcy of the activity, “and you’ll be sound asleep?”

“Nah, I might take a long bath.” You glance at him, smirking and slapping his hand away when he tried to touch your thigh, “Not in front of the kids.”

“Right, so I’m just supposed to think about that without any kind of reaction?”

He had not reacted to you like that in a while. There was always something else that took priority for both of you, to the point where you felt like you were growing apart. These thoughts were gnawing at you, but you knew better than to share them. Instead, you took in his sexually frustrated groan and felt a slightly victory as he pulled the car into the garage.

Jon did as told, immediately bribing your son with pajama and cartoon talk; you, meanwhile, took your precious baby in your arms without disturbing her rest and made it into the house with your boys in tow. Your husband and you went into separate directions, a simplistic kiss to the cheek, and you manage to get your daughter changed into comfy sleepwear without getting more than a small, drowsy cry. Placing her in her crib, you stroke her hair until her balled fists have released some tension and signaled she was done with this day.

You leave her door cracked; hoping the commotion of the day won’t keep her from sleeping through the night and walk over to the steps. Hearing Jon try to hush your son, you shake your head and go to the master bathroom; you need to take advantage of the moment to relax.

Jon never understood why you needed to have bubble baths that comprised of water so hot it quickly steamed up the room; yet it didn’t matter because it was one of the few indulgences you made in your home – a completely selfish indulgence was the master bathroom.

You bring up your playlist, propping the tablet at the far end of the counter, and slip into the pool of boiling understanding. If you weren’t going to have your husband’s full attention, you could give into the way the water heated pressure out of your body. With Jon dealing with your son, there’s no way he would be up to the task and, if you dwelled on it, you would be building yet another brick wall between the two of you that he would have no clue about.


	3. Chapter 3

You wait for the water to go cold, hearing Jon’s feet padding on the hardwood floor upstairs, then get out of the bath. Wrapping yourself securely in a fluffy bath towel, you nod towards your dry hair – happy you hadn’t drenched it while sinking into the water. As you are coming out of the bathroom, Jon is locking your bedroom door behind himself.

When your eyes meet, he pulls his shirt overhead but leaves his blue sweatpants on. Disappointed, you turn your back to him and dig into the top drawer of the dresser; briefly, you hold onto a black baby doll nightgown you haven’t worn in forever; you drop it out of your hand as you wonder if you’d be secure enough to wear and still possibly receive rejection. You worked hard at your job, at being a good mother, but you had been doing a lot of work to get your body damn near close to your idea of perfection. Part of you wondered if he had even noticed as he tried to handle his own full plate.

“Hey…”

You shiver at the sound of his voice in your ear, turning around with to see him slightly chewing his lip and holding mistletoe over your heads. Chuckling at the gesture, you cup his face in your hands and place a sweet kiss on his lips – nothing suggestive, nothing aggressive. You release him after a moment, smiling with a slow blink, “Merry Christmas, baby.” 

It was officially Christmas Eve, and you were sure he was done with the day – despite his somewhat romantic gesture.  You turn your back to him again, grabbing a plain white t-shirt and stepping past him to ready yourself for bed.

“That’s it?” Jon’s disappointment is evident as you turn around, towel gone and baggy t-shirt blanketing your body, “A little kiss and ‘Merry Christmas, baby’?”

You slightly tug at the hem, happy the fabric still feels soft, “It’s been a long day.”

“Not long enough for me to miss that my wife is pissed about something.” Jon folds his arms, the mistletoe still tucked between his index and middle finger, “What’d I do?”

“Nothing, babe. I’m just…” Lonely. Missing you. Sexually frustrated. Feeling ignored. Your courage dissolves under his grey blue stare, causing you to sigh, “Holidays, you know? So much to do.”

“The fuck, (Y/N)?” Jon keeps you from moving a step, his hand immediately on your hip, “Something is really wrong. What is it?”

You pin your hands behind yourself, pinching your bottom lip between your teeth, and lock your fingers, needing not to feel like a desperate housewife.

Somewhat shaking you, Jon urges, “Talk to me.”

You hang your head, immediately ashamed and guilty; however, you release your thoughts given the opportunity, “I miss you.”

Jon slides his other hand around your waist, pressing his forehead against yours, “I missed you, too.”

“No,” You ease back, embarrassed by his confused stare, and ramble, “I  _miss_  you, Moxley.”

The mention of ‘Moxley’ clearly catches him off guard.

“I miss when you were desperate to see me and not everything felt like some kind of—housekeeping magazine.” You force his arms from around you, taking a few steps back, and decide to go for broke with your confession, “Listen, I love you as my husband and I would trade my babies for nothing in the world. But—I can’t lie. I miss broken furniture and—hickeys that I gotta hide. I miss feeling like one sore muscle and—you looking at me like I’m the sexiest thing in the world.”

His concentrated yet taken aback expression assures you that he had not a clue you felt this way; you were doing a good job of hiding it all, carrying all the insecurities on your shoulders. That’s what you tried to tell yourself until you detected the slight sadness in his stare, like he thought your marriage was in danger and he had somehow created the problems by not doing something.

You feel like a huge pile of shit, the exact consequence you had been trying to avoid for some time now. On the verge of shameful tears, you wave your hands in front of your face with a sharp laugh, “Forget I said anything, okay? It’s so-stupid and childish. I—I’m sorry I even brought it up. Okay? Can we just—forget I said anything? I’m sorry.” You kiss his cheek quickly, climbing under the covers and curling into a ball facing away from his side of the bed. Shutting your eyes tight, you force tears back, and hope your deep breaths are quiet as you attempt to calm yourself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You should’ve kept your fucking mouth shut.

After some time, you feel his weight on the bed, shifting slow – like he can’t get comfortable. You pray for sleep, that the two of you will forget this, and want to kick your own ass for being so damn honest. Dumbest idea you’ve ever had.

Jon’s hand slides across your throat, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking it so hard you are forced to roll onto your back; his lips crush yours before you can apologize or ask questions. Immediately, your body flickers with sensations when his tongue forces its way into your mouth and his hand somehow tightens even more in its grip.

He says nothing, but you feel his body brush against you – the sweats gone and leaving his beautiful form free for exploration. You moan at the feeling, attempting to snake your hands into his hair only to have him snatch your wrists and pin them above your head. God, you remembered this somewhere in your distant memory – where he so easily made you do whatever he wanted.

The second your lips part, you are both gasping for air – strangled by the kiss and your desire. You twine your legs around him, your breath mutually hitches when his stiffness brushes your wet warmth. Jon’s eyes darken, signaling to you that he’s gone. All he can see is you and the only thing he’s after is your submission.

His hand moves from your hair to the collar of your shirt, pulling hard enough to jerk you to an upright seat and rip the material; you follow his lead, moaning in approval when his mouth sloppily finds yours again, and you could care less about the shirt when he rips it further open to grope at your breasts. Frustrated, you force his hands back to yank off the shirt and bring him in for a kiss, nipping at his lower lip as you sink backwards once more.

Jon’s hands on you, feeling his urgency teasing yours, and you were set. Suddenly, the sadness which had been foolishly consuming you for some time began to dissipate. Yet, it’s replaced with something else entirely as Jon pauses; body hanging over yours, his arms hooked under yours, his mood settles into a different kind of desperation.

There is a tightness in his features; his jaw flexes as his dimples tease his cheeks. You become selfless again, hands caressing his chest, “What is it?”

“I didn’t forget. I never do.” Jon’s words set off a ball of emotion in your stomach, causing the flood to rush to your eyes, “This, you and the kids, that’s all I want. Ever. Don’t think about leaving because I’m too—tired or out of it to remind you.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Don’t think that.” You reach down, setting him up for entry and use your legs to bring him inward; savoring the full feeling he gives you, you manage to open your eyes once more with a deep breath, “I just don’t want to miss you anymore…I love you.”

“I love you, (Y/N).” He husks the statement against your lips as he thrusts his hips in a slow, purposeful build until you two have found a natural flow. The patience he demonstrates is downright torture as you begin to meet his thrusts with your own, your hands are again forced above your head as he pins you against the mattress, stopping his movement altogether, “Don’t rush me.”

You groan heavily at his command, needing to answer that ache; but you nod and do as told, waiting for him to move again. Eyes shut tight, you try to keep your sounds quiet but let him know you approve of everything he does. All the while, you can feel his eyes on you – watching and memorizing your expression as your open mouth continues to speak in sounds of approval that your words never could.

When his pace quickens, his breath becomes heavy and his head falls to your shoulder. Fingers tightened around your wrists, he kisses frantically at your skin – each one becoming sloppier and somewhat wetter than the last. You cannot control yourself in response, your body moving despite wanting to let him have control; he seems to approve, groaning louder as you help the friction between the two of you until he’s bitten hard into your shoulder, making your mutual mission complete as your whimper echoes throughout the bedroom. Your bodies continue to move though you’ve driven over the cliff, chasing the last of that wave before you’ve stopped to catch your breath.

In the stillness, your arms and legs embrace him in a tender hold as you kiss at his shoulder and throat – a small reassurance that you are still very much his. Jon laps softly at the mark he’s left upon your skin, like an animal soothing an open wound on its paw. You smile giving him better access with the tilt of your head and savor his attention – gentle kisses covering the same mark until he’s slipped out of you.

The tenderness of his touch comes to a slow dissolve until your eyes are locked; with another hungry kiss to your lips, Jon demonstrates a Moxley smirk before disappearing under the covers in a trail of kisses.

It was clear, though poorly planned on your part, that you both needed this night’s reminder.


End file.
